


Sausage Apparatus

by weakzen



Series: Sticky Sonnets [1]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Erotic Poetry, Established Relationship, F/M, Feelings, Filthy, Groping, Humor, Innuendo, Kissing, Love, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:33:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26099452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weakzen/pseuds/weakzen
Summary: Mason puts the magnetic poetry tiles on the Detective's fridge to good use.
Relationships: Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Female Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Series: Sticky Sonnets [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1894969
Comments: 10
Kudos: 49
Collections: A series of familiar letters





	Sausage Apparatus

Fuck these late summer heat waves.

Fuck the damp clothes bunching up every available crevice. Fuck my car's broken air conditioning. Fuck this stupidly hot, sun-baked molten doorknob.

Okay, actually—maybe that car one is more on me for not getting it fixed some time in the past five years. Sorry car, you've never done a single thing wrong in your entire beautiful life.

Unlike this front door, burning my goddamn fingers.

With a pained hiss, I wrest my keys from the lock, step inside, and kick the whole thing shut behind myself. The grocery bags stick to my shoulders for a moment, canvas straps caught on my top before sliding down my arms to plop on the floor by the shoe bench. Mason's are already tucked inside it, I notice, in their usual spot. A tired smile pulls at my lips.

At least I'm not the only idiot who wore boots today.

I dart over to the kitchen as soon as I manage to peel mine off, hunching over the sink first to wash my hands, then to fill a glass with the coldest water the tap can muster. It doesn't really cut it, though. Not today. But the freezer does, and I linger inside its open door for a long moment after the ice cubes splash and stop spinning in my cup, bag of frozen fruit pressed to my neck while I waste energy in front of the only shitty and inefficient form of air conditioning available in my apartment.

But right now it's completely worth the increased hydro bill, and Mason's probably hogging the damn fan again in the bedroom, so fuck it.

I stay put.

At least until I'm a bit cooler with a glass much emptier and a bag of raspberries that's starting to get a little sad and flaccid.

I toss it back into the freezer and shut the door, only to see see a new message stuck to the other side, apparently. A longer one. Which is… strange. Because Tina hasn't been over in a few weeks.

Shrugging, I take another sip and start to read—

_I shot lust and pounded you raw_

—and immediately fucking sputter. Choke. Shit. Water down the wrong fucking tube.

Water down the front of me too, throat retching violently as I try not to spit everywhere.

And somewhere between the deep, wet, eye-watering coughs that tear though my chest, and the burning gasps that follow, a raspy, “ _Oh my god_ ,” escapes me too.

I think, anyway. I mostly focus on trying to wipe all the dribble away from my chin and neck.

Priorities.

The hand at my mouth is quickly joined by more across my body, one sliding around my hip to squeeze, another stroking up the center of my back. Mason hooks his chin on my shoulder, stubble scratching gently against my skin as he presses in close from behind.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he says, quiet concern in his voice. He rubs circles between my shoulder blades for a moment, then adds, more suggestively, as his lips brush against my ear, “If you want to choke, we can find you something much more fun to do it on.”

A laugh wheezes out of me, followed by a few weak coughs and a hoarse smile. “I'm sure.”

I set the glass down on the counter, then close my eyes to take a few deep breaths. The burn in my throat almost matches the one on my face. My cheeks are swollen, uncomfortably hot. Mostly from the choking, the afternoon heat.

Maybe a little from what I read too.

With a final pat, Mason's hand glides down to curl around my other hip, his chest and bare arms nestled against me while his long fingers trace paths above my waistband. I fold my arms and sink back against him, into his familiar warmth, heat I actually enjoy, even on scorchers like today when we mostly end up sweat-stuck together.

And we're already starting to do a good job of that.

“Did you read my message?” he asks, smirking against my cheek.

“Didn't really get a chance yet. That first line nearly killed me.”

He chuckles deeply, wrapping his arms around me, folding them beneath mine as he kisses my neck. “Not the kind of death I wanted from it. I was hoping for something… smaller. And repeated.”

I grin. “Well, I'm not finished, so maybe you can still make that happen.”

He scoffs in response. “There's never a _maybe_ about that, sweetheart.”

“There's a first time for everything, sunshine,” I tease, chuckling. “But, alright. Gimme a moment to brace myself for this.”

His smirk widens as I inhale deeply and open my eyes to the clumpy, loose ring of words spread around the face of the freezer door.

There are hundreds of them. Tiny white strips bearing black text. All from a set of magnetic poetry.

Tina's gift to me, a long time ago, one she pressed into my hands at the station the morning after she visited my apartment for the first time. She said my fridge looked lonely—and I countered that it looked blissfully empty, but still let her stick her words to it. Sweet, cheerful messages. A new one every time she visits. Keeping me and my fridge in good company and happiness.

I'd say the appliance might be blushing furiously at the moment, from what Mason undoubtedly arranged across its surface, but I know it's already witnessed far worse things from the two of us and our other… creative uses of the kitchen.

A smile pulls across my lips as my eyes fall on the message centered within it all, a laugh already building in my chest while I start to read.

_I shot lust and pounded you raw_   
_panting you moan from a thick_   
_milk pole sausage apparatus_   
_crying at the sky I make her soar_

_come hard by the lake rocks_   
_water sun sweaty us_   
_we lie together lazy smelling luscious_   
_enormous purple meat still deep in her_

_juicy woman eating you after_   
_lather from me & our delirious want_   
_frantically licking her smooth pink hot honey_   
_smear my spray through your fingered ache_

_bare beauty beneath him one thousand sordid times_   
_cold winter through summer rain_   
_why whisper gorgeous please scream elaborately_   
_as I tongue worship you with love_

_sit on me_

In the end, it's not a laugh that sputters out of me, so much as a long, shuddering, high-pitched and very dry wheeze. Tears bead at the corners of my eyes as I buckle, sag, and shake against him. His arms slide even tighter around my body, holding me steady, smirk sharpening against my skin while a deep chuckle rumbles out of his chest.

“Fuck me, _wow_.” I wipe at my eyes, another bout of laughter seizing me, one that he joins as he kisses along my neck. “Did you write a goddamn poem about the time we fucked by the lake?”

Mason only grins briefly in response, hand sneaking up to grope my breasts while his lips continue to press distracting kisses. Wetter ones. With a tongue that drags hot along my throat and teeth that nip to tear goosebumps from my entire body. He sucks me into his mouth in a way I know will leave a mark later, but his lips pull a low moan from me rather than a protest, and all I can do after that is angle my head to give him even better access.

And he wastes no time in taking advantage of it, wet suction, his groaning breath, and my soft moans of pleasure the only sounds in the apartment for a long moment.

Eventually, he murmurs into my skin, “You're gonna have to be more specific about _which_ time by the lake you mean.” He smirks again while I laugh, and his hips roll forward too, cock pressed hard and even more firmly against my ass. “But I'm glad you enjoyed the poem so much, sweetheart,” he continues, thumbing my stiffened nipple through the layers of fabric. “I thought you might find it… _stimulating_.”

I want to protest that too, if only for the smug way the words leave his mouth and the little tug he gives me after for emphasis. But I already know he felt it the moment it happened, that he can always sense it when it does, just like he'd be able to tell right now if I lied and told him that his raunchy fucking poem hadn't stirred a single thing in me.

Hadn't gotten me just the tiniest bit aroused.

Not at all.

I huff out a breath.

The bastard.

“It _is_ pretty good,” I admit, only a tad begrudgingly. My hand finds the top of his, and I start interlacing our fingers before he immediately completes the movement and curls both of us together in a secure grasp. “Didn't think poetry was really your thing, though.”

“It's not,” he says, then shrugs slightly. “I told Nate what I got you for your birthday and he said I needed to be more thoughtful in the future. And that I should try doing something romantic for you to make up for it.”

A deep laugh bursts from me. “Fuck, I wish I'd been there for _that_ conversation.”

“You didn't miss much.” He grins against my neck. “It was more sighing than talking.”

“I dunno, his sighs are still pretty good. Did he at least give you credit for putting a bow on it?”

“No, and he couldn't say anything or even look at me for a minute after too.”

I laugh again. “Well, _I_ liked your birthday present.”

“Good.”

With that firmly said, he spins me around and immediately kisses me, directly, deeply, his tongue slipping into my mouth as he pulls me tightly against him. My arms curl around his neck, and I lose myself in it, in him, in our embrace, his hands roaming me, squeezing me, his dark, rich scent enveloping me, the heady taste of him rolling sweet into my mouth, layered with salt from my skin and the moans passing hot between our lips and the other heat building steadily between us, between my legs, from the aching and pleasurable familiarity of it all.

From him.

Mason. Sunshine.

My partner.

A wild thrill jolts through me at the notion. An unfamiliar thrill, still so unused to thinking of him that way. A frightening thrill too, in a way, like falling through the darkness, unable to see, unable to stop, unable to discern anything except the silent plummet and the certainty that, no matter how far I fall, I'll never shatter against the ground.

Because he'd never let me.

And I know he feels it. My thrills, my arousal, the tangled mess that lives inside my heart. All of it.

Maybe that's why he breaks away to rest his forehead against mine, gazing at me through half-lidded eyes and long lashes and wide pupils darkened with want. Maybe that's why his hand comes up to cup my face too, thumb stroking something soft across my cheek. And maybe that's why he smiles, a small, quiet, devastatingly genuine lift of his lips before he speaks.

“'Cause your opinion is the only one that matters, Alex.”

That gets an honest blush out of me and I have to look away, overwhelmed by the soft swell of emotion expanding rapidly through my chest.

I fumble for a clever reply. A snarky redirect. I find one too. But… it starts slipping away somewhere within the freckled expanse of his neck, the few sweaty strands of hair curled against his skin, escapees from the tie he's borrowed from me to pull it all back.

And, whatever I was going to say, I lose it entirely when I glance back up and notice the way he's staring at me with those pretty grey eyes.

I wonder if it will ever stop taking my breath away. Or tugging at something that aches within the deepest, most painful parts of me. I wonder if it will ever feel familiar, the way my heart speeds up, the heavy warmth spreading across my chest, the tingle that ripples and reverberates throughout my entire body, the one he drops into me with that look of his, every damn time.

And that look… the unrestrained desire. The ferocity softened by fondness. The tenderness. The deep adoration. The absolute certainty guiding the entire intensely focused expression.

Every time, it's like he's gazing into my soul when he looks at me like that. Like he's truly seeing _me_. Like he can't see anything else _but_ me.

And doesn't want to either.

I have to look away, a knot forming in my throat.

It's too much. It's still too hard to see. Too hard to even think about.

I don't know if I'll ever get used to it. Any of it. Or if it will ever get any easier, not seem so overwhelmingly impossible despite it happening. Despite feeling that. Seeing that. Being wanted like that.

Being loved by him.

…But.

I do know that I don't want him to stop.

And I also know that he never will.

“…Well, I liked your poem too,” I finally mutter, exhaling a shallow breath before I summon the courage glance back up. “So, thanks.”

Maybe the words are weak, shaky, coming from a dry mouth and a barely cooperative tongue. But they're honest. They're an admission I can manage at the moment.

They make his smile widen too.

I have to glance away from that as well. It's… too much right now.

So instead, I uncurl my arms from around his neck, slowly drawing my hands down the front of him, letting my gaze fall too, back into his freckles while I hope the tremble in my touch and the sudden shine in my eyes isn't as apparent to him as it is to me. But I know that hope is futile. And completely unnecessary too, when he's already seen far worse, far more humiliating things from me.

When he's already witnessed the hardest, rawest, bloodiest parts of me and did nothing but handle them gently with no judgment.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply to keep that shine from becoming something more, but an unexpected texture under my hands forces them open again.

Hair.

It takes me a moment to realize that he's not wearing a shirt.

It takes me a moment longer to realize that he's not wearing anything else either, save for the crystal dangling from its usual spot around his neck.

It takes me significantly less time to realize I need a better view—so I blow out an exhale and lean back to get one.

Of course.

One that he's only happy to oblige too, of course.

Mason angles himself for me, smirk on his lips, teeth on them too, tugging the lower one into his mouth as he groans out a low noise of encouragement. I can't help the smile that pulls at my lips in response, or the way my gaze roams down his chest, his abs, down the long and solid length of his legs, and down the long and solid length of something else straining eagerly against me.

Raising a brow, I chuckle slightly and give him a grin.

“You hot today or something?”

His smirk deepens, and reels me back in against him. “I'm hot every day. Thought you knew that already.”

“Yeah, but sometimes it's hard to tell behind how modest and humble you are.”

“What can I say, I have a lot of good qualities.”

“Can't argue with that,” I reply unthinkingly, then stiffen slightly, a flush rolling across my cheeks.

I glance away again, but his hand returns to my face, thumb stroking over that blush before he draws my gaze back to him by kissing me once more. His mouth and lips move with a slow intensity, a deliberateness, a familiarity too, in a wholly different way than before. I know this kiss, just like I know his look and so many other wonderful things about him.

It's reassurance.

And it's something I lose myself in too, wrapping my arms around him again, my own lips speaking gratitude in response before our conversation shifts into desire.

Into pleasure.

Until we finally break for air.

I smile softly as I breathe against his lips. “You wanna go steam up a cold shower—”

The words barely leave me before he starts pulling me toward the hallway, but I plant my feet and pull back.

“— _after_ I put the groceries away,” I finish, giving him a pointed look.

His shoulders slump, and he groans loudly as he rolls his eyes, but he still immediately stalks over to the front door and snaps up the shopping bags. Then he yanks open the fridge and starts shoving everything into it, regardless of whether the item belongs in there or not, and regardless of whether it's on the correct shelf if it does.

Regardless of my loud protests and swearing too, as I scramble to fix his chaos, snatching the fucking _cans_ and _rice_ and goddamn _laundry detergent_ out of the fridge to be put away elsewhere. But he doesn't give me a chance to do much more than that before he's tossing the bags away empty and tugging me down the hallway toward the bathroom.

I grumble a little as he does.

At least the tomatoes are safe on the counter, though.

Soon we're in the bedroom, and my top is flying somewhere behind him. My bra quickly follows, and he follows me, kissing, stumbling, as I lead him by the hips walking backwards toward the bathroom. He pulls off the tie at the end of my braid too, stretching it between his thumb and forefinger before he lets it shoot off toward the window with a soft plink.

Sighing, I cock my head and give him a look, but he only chuckles in response and starts combing his fingers through my hair to unravel it.

I carefully pull the tie from his hair, then roll my eyes and shoot it off in the same direction. “You know, I do have a question about your poem.”

“What about it?”

“Where, exactly, did you want me to sit?” I ask, slowly grinning. “Your face or the sausage apparatus?”

“Both.”

I huff out a laughing breath. “You're so greedy, sunshine.”

Mason smirks, then slips his finger down the front of my jeans to tug me closer for another kiss. As he undoes the button and yanks the zipper down, he murmurs against my lips.

“Only for you, hot honey.”


End file.
